Iron and Steel
by Caunwen Nestriel
Summary: History will repeat itself, but be entirely unique in its manifestation. Some prophecies are misread, and lost forever. What happens when the lost is found anew by those willing to take a chance?
1. Uncharted Waters

AN: Well this has been a labor of love from the start, and we are only getting started. This is my first romp into LoTR and I want to do it justice. Thank you to my betas: the ingenious formerAnnie, the perceptive Green Eyes and Blue Insanity, and the lovely Aerlinniel722. And thank you to all of those who gave me tips, advice and resources. I recommend listening to "Where's My Love?" By SYML, "Atlantis" by Seafret, "Just my Soul Responding" by Amber Run, and "Fire and the Flood" by Vance Joy.

* * *

"The woman turned and went slowly into the house. As she passed the doors she turned and looked back. Grave and thoughtful was her glance, as she looked on the king with cool pity in her eyes. Very fair was her face, and her hair was like a river of gold. Slender and tall she was in her white robe girt with silver; but strong she seemed and stern as steel, a daughter of kings. Thus Aragorn for the first time in the full light of day beheld Éowyn, Lady of Rohan, and thought her fair, fair and cold, like a morning of pale spring that is not yet come to womanhood. And she now was suddenly aware of him: tall heir of kings, wise with many winters, greycloaked, hiding a power that yet she felt. For a moment still as stone she stood, then turning swiftly she was gone" ("The Two Towers" Tolkien 127 ).

Arwen, Imladris, March 2, 3019

Arwen awoke abruptly from her slumber, her awareness returning once again. She unexpectedly shivered and found herself disturbed at the chill suspended in the air. Imladris was a haven for all who wished only peace, valued knowledge and revelled in beauty of the arts and earth. Vilya, in the hand of her father, Elrond, erected a layer of fortitude and tranquility that sustained Rivendell in a state of mild climes and where a gentle breeze was ever present. The grip of winter never descended upon Rivendell, and for that Arwen was always glad.

Undómiel was not well versed in what some men would say is the arcane like her father or grandmother, but she possessed an inherent affinity for clairvoyance. Occasionally, Arwen experienced premonitions of events supplanted by time or place. Something unusual was certainly taking root, and Arwen ventured that it was not of benign nature. Tendrils of doubt circled her head like a diadem and painted her dreams as dreadful phantoms. Long had Arwen believed her would be one filled with finery befitting a queen. A coronet would declare her the wife of Elessar, and that crown would contain her adoration. Now, Arwen perceived no such headpiece except one that would only murmur of a fanciful dream never to be realized. Aragorn had always been a transient man; as he had a great destiny before him, remaining in Imladris with her would not prove conducive to achieving that destiny. As an Elf of the Teleri and Ñoldor, histories of immense wisdom, eternal love, and triumphant battles pulsed through her veins. She was fighting the war the few, save the truly steadfast, could endure: she was mandated to wait and fret.

Aragorn's absences were always times fraught with fear and consternation for the safety of her beloved, as it had always been when he embarked on another journey, but the stakes had never been so high. The fate of Middle-Earth and any future the pair may have rested on the shoulders of a king without a throne. Before Aragorn and the Fellowship had departed, Arwen had bestowed the Evenstar upon Elessar as a token of her love and faith, and now more than ever she hoped that he bore it on his breast still. Their world was in peril, and her belief in Aragorn had never faded, but a knocking in her heart threatened to open the doors of vacillation.

Aragorn was bound to encounter folk of all sorts, Dwarves, her fellow Elves, and Men alike for it was the way of a traveler. Yet Undómiel sensed that the meeting between Aragorn and an unknown woman was one of new and volatile stock. Never before had she received a vision of the allies Aragorn collected, or borne witness to the many faces he saw, until now.

The other woman descended from families of both warfare and grace. Her heritage making her a daughter of glistening golden swords embellished with crystal lattice work mimicking frost. She was a mixture of warmth and coolness, entirely unique. A warrior posture she held, but a tension permeated her body and held it hostage, like a cord wound too tight but deprived the chance to come undone. Arwen knew little of physical combat herself, but felt the woman was well versed and on the precipice of a great battle.

Undómiel peered into her future and saw an incoming battle of not only the body, but also the heart and mind. Empathic currents originated from the woman, showing her eyes had been opened to something new, an exotic passion which she had never bothered herself with before: attraction. The dawn of devotion had finally reached her once lonely horizon. Arwen wished the woman well, but was perplexed at the timing, and grew slightly agitated with what the maiden's response would ignite in her beloved. It could entail ill fortune for their future. It was impossible to divine anymore save the significance of that meeting, and she yearned for the embrace and gaze of Aragorn more than ever.

As Arwen sat up and drew her fingers to her lips, she found herself craving the kiss of Aragorn, but nay! She would need to sustain herself with all of the memories they had created, and envisioning the ones that were yet to come. Undómiel wished to clear her mind of such thoughts and the sweet perfume of her flowers and trees beckoned her to a place of great reprieve and peace. She set out to visit and tend to her garden to occupy herself with the gift of nurturing life, in which she would always remain certain.

* * *

Éowyn, Rohan, March 2, 3019

There was a great contrast between the regal figure before her who was clad in the garb of stealth, and the deluge of rain that marred the plain in a sheen of grey. The stranger, called Aragorn, should have blended in with the bleak landscape behind him, his cloak a mere extension of the encompassing gloom, but he thwarted such an expectation. He radiated an air of magnificence which could banish any ill weather with its touch. Even now the drapes of charcoal above parted to release a column of sunlight.

Alas! The stranger must be bringing good tidings indeed. His nature was foreign to her, and his history shrouded in mystery, but his arrival and that of his companions spoke of a great change to the somber monotony. The white clad wizard was of particular interest for he brought about the metamorphosis in her uncle. For so long Théoden had existed in a state caught between awareness and oblivion, suspended in a sluggish stupor. That vile Wormtongue had been no help, as he was the one poisoning her uncle's mind with whispers of falsehoods and evil.

Prior to Wormtongue's arrival, the King of Rohan had been marked by his vivacity and hunger for life. He was fair to all and welcomed visitors with the greatest hospitality, but Gríma's influence rendered him suspicious of everyone; anybody a potential foe. Even Éowyn herself was considered a threat on occasion, and the only protection against scrutiny was the horrid affection Wormtongue held for her. Gríma' unsavory obsession was known to her uncle, and to appease his top advisor he kept his niece near. She would tell him stories of her mother and tales of Éomer and Théodred engaging in mischief as young men, imitating the Marshals and Riders they idolized. Anything was fair game to tether her uncle to sanity.

Rohan itself had begun to decay in both spirit and luster. Their beloved steeds became continuously more agitated and spooked at invisible phantoms just beyond the reach of Man's eye, and thunder tumbled from the sky with sentinels of lightning. Rain was a typical companion to the storms, but the grasslands did not reflect this vast increase in sustenance; on the contrary, its life depleted by the day, leaving behind marshy corpses of the former strands of grass.

The white wizard they called Gandalf reignited the fire within her uncle, and inspired him to vacate his throne for the first time in months. Éowyn felt immense gratitude for the healing the wizard brought to her uncle, and what she foresaw could extend to her entire home, and she looked forward to engaging him in conversation for news of the outside world. Too long had she been starved of knowledge not saturated in sorrow, so perhaps the wizard could heal more than one wound.

Her eyes had drifted towards the ivory clad conjurer but she returned them to Aragorn's profile. He had a strong countenance with a sharp jawline, eyes as intense and silver as the watchful moon and threads of sable locks that cascaded to his shoulders. His proud and seasoned posture spoke many of trying and fascinating tales, along with a concealed fortitude and bravery that whispered of a purpose greater than that of a Ranger. He was born to be a king. Éowyn realized Aragorn's eyes were fixed on her still, and a flush of anxiety rushed through her. Later on she would discover it was the sensation of attraction, but in the moment she only felt distressed. The stranger nodded his head ever so slightly in a sign of greeting, but her discomfort only grew at his attention, so she promptly retreated to her chambers.

Éowyn arrived at her quarters promptly in a flurry of confusion and inexplicable excitement. Never before had any Man drawn such a reaction from her. All men she knew were either of her kin or such staples of her life that they bore no allurement because of their predictability. Éowyn thought little of such superficial things like love, but she was not completely blind to the workings of her heart. There had been no dependable models of romance in her life, for her parents died when she was only still a girl of seven, and her uncle never took another wife after Théodred's mother passed.

All she was left with were the scarce memories she had of her mother and father, that each day grew more faint, and the stories her uncle regaled her with about the great love of her grandparents' love, Thengel and Morwen Steelsheen. Her grandmother felt such love for her grandfather that she left behind the only life and home that she had ever known in Gondor, and joined her grandfather in matrimony. Some may have called it risky, but Éowyn always thought it was the purest expression of love.

Such unconditional love was envied by Éowyn. She had entertained the notion that one day she would come across her own soulmate from a distant land, resurrecting the glory of Thengel and Morwen, but any illusion of ardor receded along with her uncle's wherewithal. There was no time to waste indulging in inane fantasies whilst her kingdom crumbled.

Of course it was too soon to tell, but if she were so bold, she would conjecture that dear Theóden was on the mend, and past hardships ordained tragic happenings of the past. The future had finally arrived, and Aragorn came with it.

Éowyn resolved to not become hasty and reject the sanctity of reason, but her heart would no longer allow herself to repress such sentiments as joy and affection. She was starved for happiness, and the son of Arathorn's arrival was serendipitous with this new opportunity. It was not love to be sure! But, like the glistening sun once again choosing to grace the corridors of Meduseld, it was an omen of rebirth.

There was so much more that she wanted to learn about Aragorn, but her duties hadn't vanished along with her uncle's disheartening daze, so she was set to fulfill her obligations, even those not officially sanctioned by the Lord of the Mark. The white wizard Gandalf also brought disturbing news of a villain rising in the East and its insatiable talons clawing to overcome all lands and corrupt it with impenetrable darkness. Women of Rohan were not afforded the freedom of riding with their soldiers into battle, for their place had always been in the home and at the hearth teaching and protecting the progeny of the Rohirrim. Éowyn had never understood this decree, viewing it as an inefficient way to divide the society in times of crisis; but after many chastisements Éowyn learned to hold her tongue, and instead pursue her ends under the veil of secrecy.

In such dire times everyone must know how to fight, including the women, and Éowyn saw to that need every other day at two hours past noon. Disregarding and blatantly usurping such ancient traditions was hardly worthy of a Lady, but in her heart, she was a Rohirrim first, and nobility second. It was her unspoken responsibility to best prepare her people for all foes that would dare invade their homes. Today's work was to tutor as many girls as possible to produce a sizable fighting force, but not draw too many away from chores and work as to arouse skepticism. Éowyn prided herself on the system of instruction she had devised and earnestly awaited the lessons she would give.

Following Gandalf's rallying of Théoden's spirits and further cleansing him of dubiety, Háma, one of Théoden's most trusted, retrieved Éomer from his incarceration. When presented with the nephew whose integrity he had doubted, and the imprisonment he mistakenly ordered, Theóden apologized wholeheartedly. Amends were made and failing connections on the verge of being forever lost were once more restored. Éomer was cleared of any charges and named the King's heir. This informal coronation was in fact attended by Éowyn, but she deftly maneuvered herself to return to her chambers immediately after.

* * *

Aragorn, March 2, 3019

At last, Aragorn was given the privilege of a brief respite. He beckoned Gandalf to walk with him around the property of lifeless turf crunched and snapped under the worn yet sturdy boots of the seasoned Ranger and sure footing of Gandalf the White.

"Mithrandir, it has been so long since I have last been in Edoras, let alone the entirety of Rohan. Much is changed since I last visited the kin of Gondor, and not for the better. When Thengel reigned, the horses ran with the speed of elated bees rushing to a gathering around the most prosperous flower of the spring, and they held intelligence in their eyes akin to those of even the most scholarly man.

"They were keen in both physicality and psyche. The horses responded to every wish and order of their master and reveled in the companionship of both master and fellow horse. There was a liveliness that marked their movements as deliberate and thoughtful, far beyond any other stock of horses that I have come across."

Aragorn paused a moment to drink in the surrounding pasture and took inventory of tame and lethargic steeds. Their docility neither keen in physicality or psyche.

"And even worse, the grasslands are no longer boastful in their vitality, lasting throughout the year, remaining unmarred by the cruelest of verglas deposited by the unyielding winter. But like the grass has withered into colorless cadavers with brittle bones, the kingdom of Rohan has suffered decay."

Gandalf remained silent for several moments, pondering Aragorn's statement. The silence spoke of profound words about to come. Gandalf lifted his head to the tumultuous sky blanketed in ash and considered the capricious nature of the weather in Rohan.

"Elessar, you are not wrong in the slightest, for the poisonous reach of Saruman has penetrated even this proudest and most vigorous country, descending into deafening thunder and the sapping of all morale and ambition. Yet hope does remain for the blighted Rohirrim. I have done my part in healing their ailing monarch, and rallying them to arms, but the remainder of such hope lies in both the people themselves and Éomer and his younger sister, Éowyn."

The White Wizard chuckled knowingly as if he were in possession of a secret lost in the Ages.

"Éomer is now Théoden's heir, a future king like yourself. He will be the mind of his people, rationalizing all conflict and producing solutions to all predicaments, large and small. He will flourish as a diplomat and bring his people beyond this sundered existence. As for Lady Éowyn, her contributions are less clear, but will be no less worthy of celebratory song. I have at least surmised that she will be the beating heart, the center of love and friendship for her people. She will inspire the Rohirrim she will, and provide them with hope she shall."

The wizened sorcerer ceased his explanation to take stock of an invisible image that only he could see. An onlooker would believe he were witnessing the happenings of another world, his eyes tracing every shielded movement. In reality, Olorín foresaw what would come to pass.

"Éowyn will prove key to an alliance modified to fit the modern period, but founded in an immortal connection of the past. As of now the partner in such an arrangement is beyond my knowing, but I sense it will bring only remarkable change. They are an extraordinary pairing of siblings if I do say so myself."

Aragorn considered the burden of his own obligations. Then acknowledged the struggle it took to overcome the fear he would prove incompetent or unworthy. For so long he had been a Ranger, and the Chief of the impressive yet wandering Dúnedain, but no longer could he dwell in this complacency. He must now instead assume the mantle of the heir to Elendil, and rightful king of both Gondor and Arnor. Like Éomer and Éowyn, he had been orphaned and raised by a mentor, and later advisor, forever reminding him of his fate. Anyone who lived a life like his deserved respect.

"I agree assuredly, for I can relate well to Éomer, but the plight of the Lady does elude me. She seems to have rid herself of most emotion, but she has remained a faithful companion to her uncle in his time of greatest woe. I do not presume to know her character, but would you sate my curiosity, Gandalf?"

"Though my role is to provide counsel to those who both deserve and need it, I am not obliged to bring the truth directly under your nose. My craft is to set you upon your path. I advise that you grow familiar with her through actual conversation instead of relying on the senile ramblings of an ancient man. I will say two things: The blood of Númenor rushes within the ichor of her being through her maternal grandmother, Morwen Steelsheen. In addition, your observations are correct, but she has much more room for love and benevolence in her than it may be apparent now. Learn, Aragorn, that the worthiest of triumphs must be earned. I suggest you begin your investigation in the gardens, my friend. All will be revealed about the Lady in due time."

Gandalf concluded his piece and ascended the stairs to the Golden Hall to return to the presence of clear-minded Théoden.

Aragorn trusted Gandalf implicitly, for the wizard had sacrificed his own life so the Fellowship would survive. Gandalf had also the strength of will and depth of knowledge to deliver himself from the Beyond in an even more sagacious form. Nonetheless, the heir of Elendil was perplexed as to the endgame of the cunning wizard and he petulantly wished for it to be revealed promptly, yet it was plain to see that he would not unveil his greater designs.

In such moments of uncertainty Aragorn drifted back to his wonderful times in Imladris in the presence of his beloved Evenstar. Each time he had to leave grew more damning to his soul, and adversarial to his resolve. When all he wished was to return to Rivendell he had to remind himself that this entire quest was motivated by the future he and Arwen were fated to share. She had given him the ultimate gift: her immortality, and Aragorn planned to prove the boundless quality of his own love.

The amulet she bequeathed upon him would always be amongst his most treasured of possessions and even the most fleeting glance, or slightest brush of the fingertips was enough to replenish his spent spirit. Undómiel was waiting, and he didn't plan to keep her waiting long, so he would heed Mithrandir's advice and assess what clues the garden may hold.

Aragorn evaluated his surroundings to decide where to search first. There was a great fountain at the right corner of the terrace, crafted into the crown of a majestic steed. The fount was a new addition to the entrance of Meduseld, and quite the showpiece. Its inclusion indicated previous special attention paid to that corner of the terrace, so perhaps it would be a favorable place to start. Aragorn's footsteps towards the fountain were full of purpose.

Once he drew to the front of the fountain, he turned his head to the left and saw a surprising sight: firs. Elessar had no knowledge of firs growing in Rohan, and seeing them there was peculiar. There must be something unique about this area, and Gandalf had counseled him to visit the gardens, places of perseverance and nurturance. Perhaps with tremendous love firs could be kept here, and maybe they indicated of a further haven for flora. A garden may yet be hidden, and found. Concealed to him, his destiny awaited.

* * *

Éowyn, Rohan March 2, 3019

A fair half hour into the lesson, little progress had been made other than ample laughter and merriment. For many of the girls and women, sword training with Éowyn was the brightest spot of refuge and fun in their taxing and uneventful lives. The girls felt powerful and in control of their own destinies for once. The passionate fervor with which they craved tutelage only motivated her more to provide them with quality instruction.

It could not be helped that the sessions often devolved into fits of giggles, but she knew such release was good for the youth of Rohan, and she truly believed a warrior full of joy would fight so much harder to defend their most coveted. A person always fought better when they had something to fight for. Éowyn did not want the entire period to go to waste, so she ordered her students to quiet down in the tongue of her forefathers and watch her demonstrations:

"Ġestillaþ flickor. Hlosniaþhlosniġaþ mín förevising."

She raised her dearest sword, _Liberty's Mane_ and stepped five paces away from her audience to model a supinated parry and subsequent rotation to disarm the hypothetical opponent with a measured flick of the wrist reinforced by collected momentum. Éowyn had traded in her white robe for chainmail she had secretly made with the assistance of her pupils, who were the daughters of metalworkers and artisans. The armor itself was quite simple in order to allow for optimal mobility, unlike the yawning vastness of her gown sleeves and the excessive fabric which pooled at her feet. Her armor was entirely devoid of pigment except for the chest piece,with only veins of the silver tresses of a mare to decorate it. The hair formed her family crest. She had promised that once the girls had learned all they could from her, they would also receive their own mail. Though she thanked the heavens that would be a while from then as most of her students still had to learn to wield their weapons well enough in order to prove proficiency. There could not be a legion of armored girls who held their blade at the wrong end after all.

Éowyn prepared to repeat her maneuver in slower motion when she heard rustling from the firs that valiantly guarded their training sessions. Servants had long ago abandoned the garden, deeming it futile, when most plants no longer grew. Her mother was the most avid tender of the garden, but after she passed, the garden also began to be regarded as a place of great sorrow and remained undisturbed in honor of Théodwyn's memory.

Eventually, Éowyn was the only being to visit it other than the infrequent sparrow or shrill field mouse. It was sanctuary, in more ways than one. Not only a lasting tie to her mother, but also the location of the forbidden sword lessons Éomer gave her when he grew too annoyed with her constant insistence and begging. No one besides her and her students knew of the way to the garden, and all pupils for that day had been accounted for.

The alarming rustling encouraged Éowyn to rapidly turn and brandish _Liberty's Mane_ in an offensive stance when she was met by another blade.

The blade was unlike any she had seen, but she was vaguely reminded of the artfully crafted armaments of the Sindarin Elves traveling from the realm of Lórien. The craftsmanship was entirely superior, with its imposing gleam and graceful curves. The crystalline flourishes set into the center of the blade and within the polished silver pommel conspired to devise a splendid weapon.

Éowyn lifted her face to greet Aragorn, but she instinctively rotated her sword to deflect his and direct it to an offensive posture mere inches from his throat. She instantly dropped it, but did not cease to eye Aragorn with intense skepticism.

Aragorn was the first to break the tense quietude.

"My apologies my Lady, I did not mean to intrude. I was merely exploring the grounds and stumbled upon you all. I shall leave you ladies in peace at once."

He skillfully sheathed his blade with no waver of hand and made to vacate the garden when a tremendous longing for Aragorn to stay caused her to call out without any thought.

"My Lord, why don't you stay awhile? My students could always benefit from a fresh perspective. If you promise to not mention this to my uncle, I would be honored to have you as a guest instructor, as would my girls. In fact, I do believe there is much you could teach me as well. With your resplendent blade and vast travels you must have expertise in fighting styles unknown to me. I am eager to learn."

The proposition slipped from her lips in a pure impulsive outburst and her face began to color immediately in a telling blush. She was sincere in her statement, but knew her words were inappropriate and entirely offensive. Shame pulsed through her being. Éowyn bowed her head to foolishly conceal her embarrassment, when Aragorn gently grasped her chin and slowly turned it upward, her eyes of silver meeting his smokey gaze.

"I would be honored milady. And the same may prove for myself from you."

* * *

Translation to English: "Quiet girls. Watch my demonstration." I am no philologist, so I tried my best with the resources at my disposal. The end product is predominantly Anglo-Saxon with a little Scandinavian vocabulary.

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AN: Thank you for your readership and time, reviews are always welcome. See you again soon. -Caunwen Nestriel


	2. Seeing Beyond Part I

**AN: It is finally here: part 1 of the second chapter. Once again thank you to my fabulous beta readers! Recommended listening: "Glory and Gore" by Lorde, ""Still" by Daughter and "Work Song" by Hozier.**

* * *

Seeing Beyond Part i

Éowyn, Rohan, March 2, 3019

Aragorn's scimitar intrigued Éowyn. She had never ventured to supplement her arsenal with additional blades, for it was not common in Rohirric culture to depend upon anything but singular sword or spear. Her people always went to war with their horses. Sitting atop a horse required reach and leverage to strike an opponent. Therefore,erratically swinging daggers at an enemy several feet away with no hope of accomplishing anything was frowned upon. But perhaps this martial disdain could be done away with. Maybe a joint effort between her and Aragorn could inspire her people to look beyond their high saddles, and gain strength from the very earth, that man came from. Warriors would reconnect with Arda once again while exploring the possibilities that knife fighting held. Tales of recent skirmishes with Saruman's forces have told of particularly vicious Orcs who swarmed enemies like bees to a pool of luscious honey. Uruk-Hai they were called, the gruesome result of vile experiments beyond the normal realm of mortal ability. Mounts could easily become overwhelmed by an awesome consolidation of enemies due to the steed's multitude of vulnerabilities. Standing freely would permit augmented mobility and less mass to maneuver on the battle field.

Her musings were punctuated by the abrupt scrape of a mighty sword being withdrawn. Not only were her eyes, but also those of her young pupils pulled to behold the magnificent blade. _Andúril_ glistened in the rejuvenated daylight, piercing any storm clouds that foolishly lingered over Edoras. Its silvery depths were immaculate, betraying its luster with neither abrasion nor stray scuff. The blade was as polished and pristine as the day it was wrought, and that drew even more wonder from her. For a weapon that she suspected was often wielded, it surprised her that it would suffer no wear from constant use. It could very well be Elven magic, but she knew not. The man brought only strange questions to ponder, but she ardently wished he would soon supply even stranger answers.

She too drew her blade in preparation, positioning it in line with her heart and level with her chest. Aragorn regarded her as he finalized his defensive stance, and their eyes met. His choice to remain firmly in place called for her to initiate the duel. He dipped his noble brow imperceptibly, and delivered a challenging quirk of the lips, "Whenever you are ready my lady.

* * *

Aragorn, Rohan, March 2, 3019

The Lady of Rohan proceeded forward with measured caution. Her footsteps as silent as the midnight. Even the squelching turf could not foil her stealth. Determination flared from her eyes, like smoldering comets streaking towards a calculated collision. Her hair was tied back into a utilitarian knot, leaving her face bereft of the shelter of silken strands. The contours of her face were exposed to Elessar's eyes, and her graceful cheeks emphasized.

Her skin was a creamy pastel, gentle in overall shade, but liveliness enveloped the derma nevertheless. Éowyn's lips were chapped, yet still flushed with femininity. The starkest deviation from the queenly aura she greeted him with, was the armor she now wore. It was neither obtrusive, nor garish, but instead prided itself in uncomplicated elegance. The panoply was quite plain, save for delicate and hoary horsehair manipulated to imitate the profile of a virile steed looking to the skyline. She was most definitely of shorter stature than him, but she looked as mighty and imposing as any man would donning the same coat of mail.

She was a unique sight to behold indeed, a true shield maiden, balancing tenderness with ferocity. Éowyn was unlike any other woman he had met before.

Her remarkable sui generis was intensified by the gusto with which she executed her first maneuver: an ambitious wide arc directed at his head. Gone was the gentile dove, and in her place a fiery raptor had appeared.

Aragorn deduced that in her excitement to prove her mettle something went wrong. Her swing was much faster than she must have intended, sacrificing the control she needed to bring Liberty's Mane back to her own body. The prospect of dueling such an unknown fighter coupled with his great height could render her unbalanced and quicker to error, though, to his own benefit.

For someone of such an enviable size, he ducked under the circling blade with astounding dexterity, shrinking to the stubby but still respectable height of Gimli the dwarf. He shuffled back before she could recoil, and he pressed the advantage. Capitalizing on the period of time her body needed to recover from such rapid movements, he swung _Andúril_ to catch her at the ankles. The blow was successful and with a clap of iron thunder, Éowyn tumbled to the garden floor.

Aragorn bent down to offer her a hand, but unbeknownst to him, Éowyn loathed accepting aid in the face of her own mistakes, thus she scissor kicked her legs to bring Aragorn down beside her. The fact that he was so low to the ground most certainly assisted Éowyn in sweeping his steadfast balance aside. If he were at full height, it would have been like kicking a stone wall.

Elessar crashed down as well, only two paces away from her. Their booted feet brushed against each other momentarily, but Éowyn flinched away immediately, like the Dúnedain was a scalding fire poker.

The Lady's reaction was perplexing, and Aragorn catalogued it to consider later because presently he was bound to a duel, in which forfeiture was not an option. Éowyn's resolve to prove the victor bled into his mind in addition and encouraged him to compete harder.

A hearty chuckle drifted from his normally severe lips, smiles or laughter were few and far between in the life of a Ranger, there being little cause to engage in pointless mirth.

He once again splintered the hush, "What a clever, and must I say unexpected. tactic my lady. You have left me very impressed if not a little disheartened that I fell victim to your cunning. I anxiously await learning what other strategies you favor."

For a moment the Lady of Rohan remained as still as a lake held captive by frost, but any frigidity in countenance melted away with Aragorn's declaration. A subtle smile took root.

Éowyn was the first to her feet, and it was her turn to provide a hand to Aragorn, "It was nothing my lord, mere luck. You caught me off guard with your own skill. You are an observant opponent for reworking my blunders to your benefit. If you would be so kind as to entreat me, I ask you tell the tale of your magnificent weapon."

Aragorn accepted the succor she offered. He needed little help in rising to his feet, but he desired to be a gracious guest; any gesture of gratitude could be instrumental in solidifying a renewed alliance with the Eorlingas. The time for happily embracing his ancestors' legacy instead of shamefully shunning it had come, and most of all he yearned to rectify the folly of Isildur. As a result of Gandalf's miraculous return to the living realm of Arda, the remainders of the Fellowship had not only been blessed with rejuvenation in spirit, King Théodon had reclaimed his autonomy in thought, and best of all, hope came again.

With a pulse of intention, no longer fueled by dark desperation, but instead by radiant faith, Aragorn responded, "This blade once bore the name of _Narsil_ , for it belonged to my foretather, Elendil, who wielded it with the purest of intentions. It was originally forged by Telchar of the Nogrod. In its first life, it failed in protecting my people, and all beings for that matter, from the pitch gloom that lusted for all of Middle Earth. Elendil lay slain by the superior force of Sauron himself, and _Narsil_ laid pitifully shattered by his side, but alas, Isildur, heir and son to Elendil, in his grief and righteous anger, deprived the Dark Lord of his most prized asset: The Ruling Ring."

The young girls watching he duel had fallen dead silent, fearful of invading the space now precariously occupied by mounting tensions before them. And yet Aragorn's story had lit a fire in their eyes. That flame crackled to the frequency of a future in which they themselves would become the Elendil's and Isildur's of their Age, and they were enthralled.

Éowyn's own rigid demeanor softened in fascination, wonder melting away insecurity. She remained in a neutral stance some seven paces away.

Elessar continued his tale though he took no pleasure in recounting the past in its entirety, disappointment was the impact farthest from that he wanted to make, but the story needed to be told in full, he drew a morose breath and continued.

"My ancestor's triumph over Sauron was quickly stifled like the dreams of a free Arda, when he surrendered himself to the insidious temptation of the Ring. Instead of cleansing our scarred and bruised home from Sauron's scourge, Isildur, made the choice to be selfish. He did not cast away the instrument that could tether the Dark Lord to Arda, but instead possessed it as his own, in the deluded rationale that he could master it. The knowledge of Isildur's folly has been recounted in my family for several generations"

Aragorn scanned his audience to gauge their reactions, assessing if the lasses were ready to hear the rest, and he deemed them so, "Following Isildur's betrayal, Narsil remained cloven in two, and was merely a symbol of the torrential shame my forefather rained down upon my family. However, Narsil has been restored, into a battle ready blade, and I have given it a new title, more fitting of our current status: _Andúril_ , "Hope of the West" and the name is not just ornamental, but summarizes my own part to play. Like _Andúril_ , I had neglected my duty for too long, refusing to accept every facet of myself, and become the optimal host for change, but no more. Now we resume who we were meant to become all along, a rallying force and stout allies in purging our home of Sauron's taint once and for all!" He barely raised the volume of his voice beyond that of an innocuous call, but in reality his resolution was the muted equivalent of a rallying and blood pumping cry.

The young ladies responded in kind with thrilled whoops, yells and fervid applause. Drunken fulfillment drank through parched lips, and Aragorn grinned in response, with joyful sprinkles of tears emerging from weathered eyes.

Elessar realized he was not the only one in attendance sporting a grin moistened and highlighted by droplets, for Éowyn join him in his silent tears. Witnessing such passion and love spilling from the Lady of Rohan, was a wonderful sight to behold, but nevertheless a sobering return to reality.

Aragorn cleared his throat in hopes of drawing the attention of the exuberant ladies, but only Éowyn caught on to his signal for silence. They locked eyes, and Aragorn's will was transmitted to Éowyn's comprehension.

Suddenly Éowyn had shed all indication that she too had fallen under an emotional spell, molded her lips into a ring and released a shrill and commanding whistle, _"Ríce íphildee hleótend cwyde behæbbe, men vårmålsetting ikke væreoppdage, men stæl befrigne andgiet cann camp."_

Éowyn's pupils cast their heads to the ground and ceased all ruckus, along with responding in unison to her command, " _Gese húsbondan, wé waralware."_

Translation: "Ríce íphildee hleótend cwyde behæbbe, men vårmålsetting ikke væreoppdage, men stæl befrigne andgiet cann camp."- I know of the majesty held within his words, but our goal is to learn about swordplay, not become overwhelmingly noisy. Now watch.

"Gese húsbondan, wé waralware."- We understand mistress, we will watch noiselessy.

She looked again to Aragorn and inclined her head in compliance, a flicker of amusement still shone in her impeccably composed countenance.

"My students and myself are very grateful for this percipient lore, and we shall treasure it always, but time is running short, yet a victor has not been declared yet, would it please you to resume our sparring session?"

"Most definitely, my Lady" Aragorn finished with flourish of _Andúril_ , "If our guests are so inclined?" he left the query hanging in the air to the anxious girls like the intoxicating aroma of breaded confections would attract the starved.

They all nodded in concurrence, their blue eyes sparkling and flaxen hair dancing in the breeze. He understood their answer as approval, and he squared off to face Éowyn, as her acolytes waited with bated breath. Keeping Éowyn's cautionary words in mind, he was the first to lash out with his blade in a formidable forward jab, which Théoden's niece deftly evaded by side stepping the impending blow. Éowyn then took the offensive through a diagonal cut across her body, power anchored in her two handed grip. Aragorn countered her attack by halting it midway, but she realized the futility in her attempt early enough that she could cartwheel out of Andúril'sdevastating wake. Andúrilthen drove towards the murky turf after losing contact with _Liberty's Mane_ , allowing Éowyn to expertly claim Aragorn's sword as her own.

Now Elessar, was left open to an adversary brandishing two swords, and able to outflank him on all sides. He apprehensively elevated his hands with the palm facing upward to represent capitulation, though he foolishly dared to dream that the duel would not yet end. Aragorn bent down to one knee, and bowed his head in respectful deference, awaiting how Éowyn would choose to proceed. Following little hesitation, Éowyn bestowed Andúrilback into Aragorn's charge. The cool steel of the blade bit into his hands, but it was soothing nonetheless.

She stepped back after Aragorn cupped his fists around the blade's edges, waiting for him to regain his footing. He relished a few more moments of simply connecting with the weapon that was his birthright, but slowly rose to his feet,

"My Lady, it is most kind of you return the weapon that I lost. I could think of few, if any, men who would generously surrender their rightful bounty," during the delivery Aragorn's brow remained pointed downward, as if anticipating reproach, but none did he find.

Éowyn ventured further, "Think nothing of it, but a mere exchange of friendship. A token if you will, a veritable oath that both our great houses have signed: to never abandon the other, even at the prospect of imminent destruction. Instead shall we eternally rally side by side, as brothers in arms. I am pleased that such a formidable contrivance has found an equally adroit lord. But, Aragorn, never forget, I am no Man."

Elessar met her blazing eyes, and the Lady seemed to grow more imperial in attention. Momentarily, a divine phantasm of a woman long deceased dominated the space in which Éowyn occupied, glossy curls of ebony and resplendent pearls flared outward as it carried on the very whim of the wind. Steelsheen.

Aragorn stumbled back aghast, and held his eyes closed for several beats to re-gather his wits. Greedily he sucked in clarifying breaths, and upon discovering that glorious illumination no longer lingered at the edges of his furrowed brow, he opened his eyes and beheld nothing but a vacated garden. Neither the niece of Théoden, nor her juvenile apprentices were there, and he was all alone.

Overhead, a clear toll was heard, loud and strong it resonated atop the thatched rooftops and hopped from foothill to foothill. Supper time had come and Meduseld was the epicenter of the warning bell. Seeing as Aragorn was no longer in the company of any others, he thought it best to go back to the Golden Hall. A faint murmur crested atop the the barriers of Estel's ears, always just barely dodging the level of sound he could detect, but like an unwavering promise, it echoed against his skin: _Steelsheen._

* * *

Éowyn, Rohan, March 2, 3019

Éowyn had dismissed her tutees at once, aware that she had already kept them too long, which could arouse suspicions. The match went past the bell that announced the time for toil and duty to end, and boldly marched on beyond the first ring of feasting hour. Sparring with Elessar in both jests and blows, witnessing the intimate way in which he approached combat and listening to the glorious history of his ravaged heirloom, was like the stuff of dreams. Catharism, ardor, understanding and comradery colored that time in the garden as something extraordinary, and she suspected she was not the only one to have thought so.

She would have much preferred to spent the evening remembering every detail of that afternoon, but the time for rest had not yet come. The household needed to be fed, therefore she chartered her course to freshen up briefly at her chambers and redress in more befitting attire.

She made use of a long forgotten side entrance that burrowed into the forsaken rooms of her parents. Theodwyn's fondness for horticulture marked the chambers nearest the flora filled patch as the best home for both her and her husband. Now like the garden, the rooms of Théoden's expired sister were to remain untouched or disturbed. Éowyn made use of it, when her enterprise was in peril of being found out by her king, and it would again fulfill that purpose.

At once she set to work shoving her armor and beloved sword into the dark recesses of a warped and swollen wooden chest. Next she took some moments to fill the tub before her with water. Then she stripped herself of the remaining undergarments and jumped into the wash basin. Éowyn gasped a few times at the chilling clime of the liquid, sputtering out half formulated curses. Although, the thought of dining with Éomer, Théoden, Gandalf, Aragorn and his companions brought such sincere swaths of cheerfulness that any obstacle, including biting water, was washed away.

Within a dozen minutes, she had removed all perspiration and residue from her dalliance outside, dried herself off, and recommitted to a stately crimson frock, previously set aside for future use. She didn't spare one glance at her reflection as she walked crossed the threshold, and slowly moved aside the great tapestry that had been installed to block access to her parents' chambers. Éowyn peered outward to scan for any witnesses, but the corridor was empty. Satisfied with her state of concealment, she shuttled the mighty canvas back to its inconspicuous starting position, and headed east to the main hall.

The journey only took a few moments for she was as sure of direction in her home as a sea bird chasing the cyan tide teeming with delicious fish. When she appeared at the entryway to the lively feast, a quick scan of the chamber revealed that her uncle was in the midst of conversing lively with the newest visitors to Edoras. It was tradition that the first drink of the evening always be poured in honor of and for the reigning monarch, and she had yet to fulfill that particular custom. Éowyn paused briefly to grasp a hefty jug brimming with wine, but her eyes were entirely focused on her uncle. As she crossed the cerise planking to serve the vintage, her nearing foot patter alerted Aragorn to her presence, and he to hers, but she diligently averted her eyes and tendered the drink.

Aragorn, Rohan, March 2, 3019

* * *

"The king now rose, and at once Éowyn came forward bearing wine. 'Ferthu Théoden hál' she said. 'Receive now this cup and drink in happy hour. Health be with thee!' Théodon drank from the cup, and she then proffered it to the guests. As she stood before Aragorn she paused suddenly and looked upon him, and her eyes were shining. And he looked down upon her fair face and smiled" ("The Two Towers" Tolkien 136).

* * *

 **AN: Thank you so much for your time and readership! It means the world to me andI apologize for the prolonged waiting period, I had throat surgery and started my last semester of high school so life has been entirely chaotic. That being said, expect the second part of chapter 2 to come out early March, the next half with cover the beginning of Arwen and Faramir's tale so look out for that! Leave a review if you would like. :)**


	3. Seeing Beyond Part II

Unknown

Sunlight shimmered through the gaps between the needles of the pine leaving a latticework of yellow among the periphery of the clearing. The only two who would partake in that glorious day were two onyx-haired lovers. The forest itself was silent as even the wood creatures appeared to have retreated to the sanctity of the shade. Nonetheless, the leaves rattled on lightly to the breeze, which was almost hesitant to interrupt the amorous moment between the pair.

In contrast to the tender tranquility of the day, Tinúviel was captured in the throes of her sorrow; meanwhile, Beren was working desperately to mollify her woes. Lúthien was knelt partway under the awning of the encompassing trees. The other half of Lúthien was open to the cerulean sky. Beren had extricated himself entirely from the forest's domain and was caressed by the rays of light that fell from the heavens. His blue eyes sparkled with emotion through the looking glass of tears. He had bent himself forward to meet Lúthien's troubled grey orbs and had gathered her weeping form in his steady arms, grounding her to the present. Lúthien lifted her face locked in a watery grimace,

"My love, how can we continue this? Us? It is as if the Valar and Maiar alike are opposed to the match. My father, Thingol, views you as a conniving pretender who only seeks to harm me. Your people, the Edain, see me as nothing more than a temptress that uses her beauty to enchant and ruin."

Beren gently grasped Tinúviel's chin and their eyes locked. There was an intensity in his cobalt globes that enraptured her in its steadfast promise of better times.

"Tinúviel, you are not only the most beautiful of all, but also the most graceful and otherworldly. Within you lies the potential to redefine your circumstances through song or mere thought. Do not allow the doubts and protests of others to ruin this love that you and I have made. All we need is faith in each other and the bond we share."

New tears ceased to spring from Lúthien's eyes, the ones from before continued their descent upon her ivory cheeks. Beren's affirmations had breached her barrier of incertitude, but there remained the raging epicenter of fear.

"Beren, you speak with such determination and affection that it is impossible to deny you, and yet my dubiety remains with its talons puncturing my heart. We come from two distinct worlds which have never mingled before in the way in which we intend. I desire only to see the future as rosily as you do, but we are separated by our very beings."

Tinúviel's lips trembled and her voice broke at the end of her speech.

Beren remained impervious to his lover's despondency and permitted a thoughtful smile to grace his features. He would see that their love last.

"I do not fail to see the validity in your concerns, but the fact that we have come together at all is beyond what any Vala, Elf, or Man could imagine. Already we have overcome the greatest adversary to our affair: bridging the gap that has lasted for millennia. Isn't that truly something to celebrate?"

Lúthien hesitantly nodded her head in agreement. Her mouth quivered slightly until it found the courage to break into a timid smile. Tinúviel nodded her head and kissed Beren on the crown of his raven locks, conveying her undying affection.

"There is wisdom in your words, Son of Barahir, I will heed your counsel and cast aside my doubt and build this life together that we dreamt of. Now, as you raised me up, I will do the same for you. Stand, Lord of Ladros."

Tinúviel rose from her perch on the soft turf and gathered Beren's hands into her own, drawing him up with her. Their movements were fluid and unimpeded, like waves prancing on the smooth surface of the sea. They could have been mistaken for one entity to the ignorant eye.

Once they had arisen, however, their visage shifted. No longer were the edges of the shrubbery and their splendid leaves as linear and defined, nor the colors of the sky and grass as sharp or vivid. All aspects of the image congealed together to reconvene in a new picture with foreign subjects and landscapes to gaze upon.

The undercurrent of the situation was the same: an intimate exchange between lovers.

In this newly materialized world, clarity is once again restored to apply a story to its accompanying illustration. The characters come into view.

In place of Doriath was the Mallorn-studded realm of Lothlórien, resplendent in its golden hue. Upon a slight knell stood a man and woman alike, except they were no ordinary Men. One was of lineage from the House of Húrin, and the other Peredhil.

The man with a cap of hazel hair, a noble brow and indigo eyes was of an unknown identity to Evenstar, but the woman opposite him was frighteningly familiar. With her alabaster skin, slate optics and crepuscular hair that winded down into oblivion it was like looking in a mirror to Arwen.

This doppelganger of Undómiel and her foreign companion leaned closer to each other, their breath intermingling, and shared a tender kiss with more meaning than simple words could express. Theirs was a timeless tale of fondness and passion that consumed their every waking moment with lustrous beauty. They were two stars in the night sky who had come together to begin a new constellation, glorious in its stellar nature.

Arwen jolted awake with the name _Faramir_ on the cusp of her lips.

* * *

Arwen, Imladris, March 3, 3019

Arwen was well aware of the lore regarding her forefather and foremother. The tale of their first contact was the stuff of legend, and every one of her kin knew it by heart. Beren came upon Lúthien, who was dancing merrily through the woods, dodging every gnarled tree root and jagged branch that may halt her progress. She twirled and sashayed like the breeze itself funneling through the forest. Upon glimpsing Lúthien whilst she was unawares, Beren saw what was truly in Lúthien's heart when she had nothing to hide. Tinúviel was pure, unmarred by even Morgoth's taint, and an unassuming fount of power. Beren loved her for it.

He grew entranced and flocked to her whimsical figure like a parched man running to a stream. Beren's vigil would not last long, for in his awestruck state, Thingol noticed Beren's intrusion and commanded his daughter to flee, thus separating Tinúviel and her enchanted audience.

But it would seem that Eru Illúvatar blessed this union and deemed it acceptable for the two to find each once again. It was decreed that the line of Beren and Lúthien would never fail as long as Arda remained standing. Nobody had been brave or foolish enough to contest this conclusion, and Arwen lived her life believing it. Upon meeting Aragorn, and their own burgeoning love, they were described as Lúthien and Beren reborn, the second coming of a match that would reunite Men and Elf again. Arwen had met her match in Elessar, and they would continue the tale of Tinúviel and Erchamion, as their reincarnated selves.

Not once had Undómiel expressed doubt in her and Aragorn's part to play in the prophecy, as the pieces all seemed to fall into place. Arwen had never known a prognostic to ring false, Arwen's own father and grandmother masters of foresight. She believed portents of the future to be infallible. Arwen had maintained her faith, until the present. Two visions had unwound before her eyes, both which called the prophecy into question. Arwen was also in possession of clairvoyance due to her heritage and her own forecasts were always reliable.

Yet, who was she to question the truth of a centuries-old declaration? But was it not prudent for Undómiel to follow her own instincts, like she had been tutored by Elrond and Galadriel respectively? Arwen was torn between the transparency of history and the murkiness invading the here and now.

She had not the acuity or experience to untangle the jumbled and knotted plait of reality by herself. Her father would be the best source of discussion and discernment, but his confidence in Aragorn had only presently grown strong. Arwen couldn't risk undermining the delicate faith that Elrond had instilled in Elessar, her beloved intended, so she was left one option. Undómiel would seek the insight of Nerwen, in Lóthlorien, at the heart of her Galadriel power. Moreover, the inclusion of her grandmother's domain in her vision must be an indication that approaching Galadriel was the best course of action. Evenstar would devise a thorough note that spoke of her desire to travel to Lórien and treat with her grandmother, for if Arwen were to suspend her intentions until the morrow, and face her father, she might lose her nerve.

Dear Father,

It has been a considerable time since I last saw the green splendidness of Caras Galadhon, and I ache for the company of my grandparents. As of late, the absence of Mother has weighed heavily on my heart, and I feel the only balm to the wounds left by Mother's departure would be spending time with her parents. Do not fret for the fact that I left under the night sky with stars still at their glorious zenith, for I could wait no longer. It only seemed right that my journey begins immediately, and be christened by our luminous companions in the sky. Farewell for now. I will endeavor to return to you soon.

With all of my love, Arwen.

She left the missive on the granite table that acted as the focal point of her sitting room and traded her nightdress in for a grey tunic with utilitarian trousers and riding boots. Evenstar gathered a small supply of rations within her private pantry, mostly dried fruit and varying nuts, and then collected a few changes of attire. Arwen knew the way to Lórien well, so she could ride fast and hard.

She crept to the stables and met her silver mare with resolve in her countenance and purpose in her strides. Arwen made quick work of saddling and bridling her equine companion and very soon rode off into the moonlit beyond.

* * *

Faramir, Ithilien, March 3, 3019.

Faramir jolted awake under the same resplendent rocky satellite as the journeying Undómiel. He had the most confounding dream, the culmination of weeks' worth of fragments that he encountered in his rest. Before, the images were choppy and unfocused, rendering it impossible for Faramir to glean comprehension of his unconscious dwellings. But now, the intricacies of his dream were brought to the surface.

It began as a private moment between a distraught woman and her comforting beloved occurring in a serene meadow, a brief respite inside the immense body of a lively forest. But soon after, the pair shared a gentle meeting of the lips, and they transformed into entirely dissimilar individuals. A woman of Elven heritage, with a strong gaze and incomparable beauty, and himself in close proximity to the caliginous haired Peredhel. They carried themselves like fond swain, which Faramir found very anomalous.

Faramir had never met this woman in his life, and yet she was the focal point in his nightly imaginings. Their location was unknown to him, but its features were striking nonetheless. The air was perfumed with age old magic, a soft song carried throughout the wooded space, and magnificent trees populated the nearby areas.

The Captain of Rangers of Ithilien was struck dumb by how familiar this foreign place felt. The name of it was on the tip of his tongue. Faramir struggled to grasp any mention of its existence within his memory but the knowledge was insistent on remaining out of reach.

Upon realizing the futility in this exercise, Faramir ceased to blindly grab hold of random mentions or phrases in his mind, and instead decided it was best to focus his search. Only one being approached the learned nature that Faramir sought, and that was the wizened and worn Wizard, Gandalf.

Faramir had come across Gandalf not long ago in the libraries of Minas Tirith. He had engaged the conjurer in conversation to sate his own curiosity of lands beyond Gondor, and Gandalf spoke especially fondly of the land ruled by Lady Galadriel and her consort, Lord Celeborn. It appeared that Gandalf planned to eventually make his way to their realm for it was an origin of great knowledge and foresight. And that realm adorned in the massive spires of the beech-like trees was known as Lothlórien.

If Gandalf's praise of Lady Galadriel was to be believed, she would be Faramir's best chance at revealing the meanings of these persistent nocturnal visions

Elrond, Imladris, March 3, 3019

* * *

Lord Elrond traversed the corridors of his Haven with the emergence of a pastel dawn to accompany him. All seemed to be well within the walls of Rivendell as the elf's sharp eyes could discern. The early morning was devoid of sound for the most part besides the occasional bird call of the sparrows and doves who tumbled and twirled in the cool air with reckless abandon.

Elrond smiled contentedly as he paused momentarily and extended his right knuckle outward, as if waiting for a phantom entity to clasp his outstretched hand. It was not an incorporeal being that touched his manus but a juvenile dove with sapphire streaks that ran from beak to tail feather. It remained silent for its tenure on Elrond's hand but kept bold eye contact and tilted its head from side to side as if deducing a lasting opinion of Elrond's character. The little creature was Arwen transmogrified into avian form and this fact reminded Elrond to visit his daughter immediately. However as not to frighten the delicate creature perched on his now aloft forefinger Elrond delivered a soft whistle to the youthful bird with gentle encouragement to rejoin its friends in merriment. The dove once again cocked its head and it's wings flared outward in order to capture the gale and take flight. Soon enough the feathers caught the visiting breeze and flapped to ride its currents, but not before it gave an nondescript nod to Elrond.

The Master watched the fledgling depart for several moments until it was out of sight, undoubtedly having reunited with its fellows. Elrond was thus inspired to reconvene with his own kin. Hence, he resumed the path to Arwen's chambers and found the doors ajar.

This was not particularly peculiar as Undomiel favored an open and airy space but what he found odd was that the doors were not intentionally perched behind the halting presence of tomes acting as doorstops. Instead the doors were randomly askew, vulnerable to swinging with the whims of the wind. Elrond opened the doors enough so he could pass through and upon the completion of a few steps into Arwen's quarters he found a note on a central table.

Elrond knew what the message entailed due to his instinctive prescience. Thus he knew the significance of the script etched onto the parchment: Arwen had left to reunite with the Lady of Galadhrim, and at this he smiled. Some prophecies were misread, but he had full confidence that the one of Luthien and Beren's legacy would not be misconstrued. Arwen would meet her true match in due time.


End file.
